He turned, and there, slithering through the shattered remains of the greenhouse's eastern wall, massive coils of dark olive and black scales catching the pale morning light, was Exile. The anaconda was already moving with that fluid, ground-devouring speed that masked the true lethality beneath. His eyes were blazing, fixed on the same ridge, the same destination. He didn't need to speak. Lucan could read the coiled tension in every inch of that massive body the way he could read a battlefield, the way Exile's muscles contracted, the way his thick tail lashed once against the broken stone, the absolute, wordless focus that meant only one thing.
She's in danger. Move.
"Exile!" Lucan's voice came out rougher than he intended, the measured composure cracking at the edges like thin ice. "The zombies are incoming, thousands of them. They're already inside the bowral's walls. The manor will easily be the next target"
